Mixed Resolutions

Weddings and New Years don’t mix. Not for the reasons you might think, a vow is close to a resolution and Aunt Gertie will still get plastered, fall face up, panties down, into some over iced cake or some other drink--no matter what you call the holiday. No, we’re not even talking about our glorious event coinciding with the New Year’s Holiday (Although yes, I have had that conversation. That’s a blog topic within itself). I’m just talking about talking about weddings over New Years.

Our conversation started, couch cuddling, in front of Jeopardy, much like this:

PQ: Let’s talk about the wedding.

Alex: It’s time for double jeopardy!

ME: (strange gasping sounds of choking in Chex Mix) MMMM, Waff?

See I had no idea I was supposed to talk about this wedding thing. My proposal was that she ran off, create a wedding and reception like God fashioning Heaven and Earth: by herself. God didn’t need me for the creation thing and he only had seven days. My queen’s got unt—She hasn’t even picked a date! Sure, I was married once before, but that wedding preparation ended as a weird exhaustive thing, stumbling over vacuous morphing nuptial concepts until confused cross-eyed we yelled, “Let’s go to Vegas!”

That’s not the Pirate Queen way. I proposed less than a month ago, and she’s already three columns of Firefox bookmarks and seven spreadsheets into preparation and she’s only asking, “What colors do you like?”

That’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it has to do with that New Years thing I spoke of. See, with New Year’s comes resolutions:

“I’m not getting married until I fit into this dress.” She flashes a Google image of a curvy, statuesque gown with a waist that fits a Pixie Stick. I look at her and swallow the silence. Beside the picture, she looks up, expectant.

I smile, point back at the Chex Mix. “MMMf Waff!”

Contestant one says, “What’s another fine mess, Alex?”

I love my bride to be. I love her for all her curves. I love her better or worse. I love her thick or thin. but don’t know if we’re ever getting married if she’s planning on fitting the pixie dress.

She sits up and faces me. Cold air gusts past my exposed belly. “You don’t think I can get down into a size that would fit that dress?” Her command of my non-verbals is staggering!

“No, honey. Of course I believe you could fit that dress. I am worried about how long it will take you to lose all the weight.”

The cats clear the sofa.

“Hoof in mouth,” says Alex and leaves for a commercial.

There’s nothing left in the living room but me, my Chex Mix, and my icy-eyed Pirate bride to be—even the television has gone quiet.

The Pirate Queen puts down the TV remote control. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

“Of course not, my love! Look. You’ve got curves. I love your curves. They fit well against my curves.” I grab another handful of Chex Mix.

“You’re right,” she stands. Leaning over she grabs my Chex Mix bag and walks away. I hear a noise that suggests my bag is now in our trashcan. “We’re not getting married until we lose some weight and can stand proudly naked in front of our families.”

“Uhm, that’s not gonna happen even if I lose weight.”

“Oh, baby, I told you, size doesn—“

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” I sigh. There’s no getting out of this, but I try. “We can stand proudly in front of them without losing weight.”

“No, because this is our New Year’s resolution: we’re losing weight.”

What the hell? It wasn’t my resolution three Chex handfuls ago. “It is?”

“Yep,” She comes back into the living room and slips back against the opposite end of the couch. “We’re going on a low-carb diet.”

“A what?” Now I’m not I dieter. I’ve lost weight, but I accomplished that the manly way: through sweat and exercise, not by giving up food.

“You’ll have to pry this Twinkie out of my cold dead hand!”

She goes further into describing the low-carb diet to me as “Something you’ll have to research. “

I do—the research. I already do the other. There are almost as many low-carb diets as the Pirate Queen has little wedding bookmarks. I find good carbs and bad carbs warring for control of my obesity, while lean and fatty proteins vie for my soul. I had no idea. And now my queen expects me to. Who knew that marriage came with such responsibility?

That’s why I find myself today at the bookstore looking through diet books to enhance my New Years. If our wedding planning continues to absorb and covert holidays, I’m screwed: if we don’t get this wedding planned before Mother’s Day, there’ll be no way she’s fitting into the pixie dress.

Epilogue

So I might as well tell you: The Pirate Queen said "yes." I know. It's not exactly the way you wanted to hear the story, but despite my bloggy exterior, I still believe in privacy and personal things. Things and moments that belong to couples, and not the world. The moment I proposed. That moment is hers.

So what's new for the RobBlog in 2011? Well, I'm writing again. I'll blog more, and start posting short fiction on the Descarte's Lemming site, so keep your eyes open for that. Other than that, stay tuned, and find out with me!

Happy 2011! God's blessings to you and your family in the New Year.

Rob

Fluid Thinking

8:00am…

“Would you like some coffee, hon?”

“Yes, please. And some juice if you could.”

“Orange?” Ella is not the mind reading waitress I’d hoped for. To get what I want, I’ll need complete morning thoughts; it doesn’t bode well.

Too many thoughts…too little coffee.

“Yes, please.”

She nods, turns, and ambles. Ella’s next stop: the old man and little girl ahead of me sitting against the window. In this story, the old man we’ll call Grandpa. The little girl? She’s Cindy. Grandpa and Cindy’s conversation leads me to believe that this is not their first meeting. Grandpa’s getting coffee. Cindy’s focused on the blueberry—

“Pancakes!”

“Don’t you think we should order you something to drink first?”

“Pancakes! Pancakes! I want pancakes.” Cindy doesn’t need coffee. She’s battered in enthusiasm.

“Can you say please?”

Now she’s battered in silence. Cindy’s eyes roll back, greeting her forehead. “Hi forehead! You know this strange ‘please’ word Grandpa speaks of?”

Her lids shut tight, in a covert vocabulary egg hunt. Cindy is closed for repairs--

Ping!

Eyes wide sapphire glory blink-blinds me from across the diner. Cindy head tilts “Plee-ee-se?” Her mouth of babe a string of pearls.

8:05am

What am I doing here so early?

Great question. Thanks for asking. You find a good answer; let me know. All I know is the Pirate Queen left her car at the office and took the train last night. It’s the day before Christmas Eve and she wants to leave work early. That leaves me as her early morning pumpkin coach.

What? Where’d I lose you?

You’re looking at the Blogdate? Never go by that—I’m like milk: that’s my sell by date. It’s the date you need to buy my story, not the date I milk the story bull.

Cow?

Eh, maybe you should read the story first before you decide that. I’m just sayin’…

Now is the blogging of our discontent…

So where was I? Oh, December 23. I’m treading consciousness about ready to slip under.

…made glorious by—

“Coffee,” Ella’s back from Cindy’s pancake party.

“Thank you.” Just in time. I order my food and dip my face in my cup.

“Sourdough or wheat toast?”

I look up, black brew rolling from my nose. Ella still hasn’t walked away. “Sourdough.” Coffee falls flow onto the menu. Ella backs away as I lick the food list clean.

Neurons step forward for roll call. It’s too early to be up. Why am I up? Oh, yeah, the pirate queen. She took the train—

“No! Not Bob’s Big Boy! Coco’s!” Grandpa is a little flustered talking to Grandma on the cell phone. “Because I don’t know where the big boy is!”

Maybe I should introduce myself. “I’m the big boy today. How may I assist you?” Naw, Grandpa looks like he carried a gun in Korea. I’ll sit here. I’m not convinced he’s not carrying a gun in his sweat pants now.

Cindy is drawing life-size crayon portraits across the table. She doesn’t care if she’s at Bob’s Coco’s or Denny’s. Me, I’m ok here. Except, did I just lick the menu? I dip my tongue in scalding coffee for sixty-second sanitization bath.

What was I thinking? I look at my briefcase. I didn’t want to leave it in the car.

Peeling tongue flesh reminds me: I used to be Cindy innocent (although they called me Robby). The world was my fresh canvas. My only Crayola limitations were stay-in-lines-black-and-white. I ignored that color.

5…4…3…2…1…

Withdraw tongue from coffee. Dip tongue in cool orange juice.

Cindy looks over and smiles. She thinks I’m flirting.

Oww. That’s how Robby Cindy innocent learned his first lesson: pain. Touch a stove; stop a bike using front brakes only; lick Tammy Graybill’s chocolate covered cheek during sixth grade lunch. Things not to do--all learned through scabs and scars.

Marriage. Yeah, that too, although I learned it much later than sixth grade. Drawing my briefcase to my side, I wonder, did I really learn that? I went through the pain, but four years later I’m a two years mutineer in a relationship coloring blue skies and pretty flowers, every one bearing the Pirate Queen’s name.

“So he bent me over the kitchen counter…” No, it’s not Grandpa and Grandma. This conversation is coming from behind me. I’m guessing it’s the young bedraggled girl who sat behind me. I look back…

Yup, she’s got her phone to her ear. “No! His nose hair! It was exhilarating!”

I turn back to watch Cindy. I like her innocence. She’s got her pancakes, and Grandpa’s asking about the last time she came to visit him and Grandma and they went to the same Big Boy. Looking at the Coco’s sign outside his window, I find myself more than just a little concerned.

“Dan can’t find out—Because! I need his hairy back and toe love. I know! They make me crazy! I’m hot just thinking—Because. I’m telling you. This guy—last night’s guy--he made his nose hair wave like The Pampas in fall…”

I prefer the lost innocence of Cindy and Grandpa to call-girl behind me. She’s still learning that there are some lines to stay within if you don’t want to get burned. There’s a moment when we lose our innocence. We think that everybody we get close to is just like call-girl--or become one ourselves: it’s easier to not get hurt when you don’t let anybody close.

My omelet is here. I sprinkle Tabasco across the plate and look at my briefcase. Chewing on things, I reach in --clutching harsh corners. The box. It’s still there, solid and ominous as ever.

Am I sure I want this?

I’ve been here before. It’s more than breakfast at Coco’s. I’m floating on faith. 2010 was a turbulent sea colored in choices: grad school, unemployment, Hindsight, the house, the Pirate Queen.

The Pirate Queen. She’s kept me afloat. Why? What makes a Rob-lationship worth sailing? Don’t get me wrong. I like me. I float my boat, but what makes her like me? Even more important: what makes her love me?

I know why I love me. I also know why I love her. She’s warm. She’s funny. She’s silly. She’s smart. She sees everything as a list. Even more, she lets me lick chocolate from her cheek without breaking my jaw.

“Grandma!” It’s Cindy. Her grandma is here. Grandpa pops out of his seat, hugging Grandma. It’s warming. It can’t be warming for Grandpa; his sweatpants are slipping. I wish he’d turn the other way. I’m not getting a full moon, but it is at least waxing gibbous.

Grandma notices, and slides her hands down Grandpa’s back, lifting pants and cupping butt in one gesture. Grandpa smiles.

What would I be willing to risk for that? Is that what I want?

I pull the box from my case and smile. I almost cry at the answer: only if it’s the Pirate Queen.

“I’ll just leave this here,” it’s Ella with the check. “Whenever you’re ready—Ohh! That’s nice.”

“Thanks. It’s for my girlfriend.” I wipe my mouth and take the last sip of coffee. “I’m asking her to marry me this weekend.” I grab my check and leave.

I’m ready.

Dancing Circles

“Are we dancing around something here?” She asks.

I dunno. “You’ve seen me move.” I sidestep, “You think I can dance?”

“C’mon. You know what I mean.”

For a dancer, my peg-leg queen is pretty direct.

This begins our conversation. It begins many conversations—not just ours; many that waltz circles, gyring drains.

1,2,3,1,2,3…

The Pirate Queen and I have partnered together for over a year. We’ve cut rugs and corners, holding each other close—“one more song.” Nobody leads. Nobody follows. We clomp time, tripping on feet, and catching missteps. We’re not pretty to watch, but we work well together: I’ve got two left feet, and ol’ peggy, well, she doesn’t have any.

We started with Snow Patrol’s “Crack the Shutters.” That was our song. Now we move to the beat of our own drum. When she feels sexy, she’ll hammer-dance for me. When I feel sexy, I’ll hokey-pokey for her.

“You put your right leg in—“

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! You can stop right there!”

The queen’s conservative when it comes to dance moves.

Me, I’ll dance to anything that’s got a beat. That brings us back to today’s question.

“Are we?” Her question beats into my skull. The PQ doesn’t freestyle. Each dance has its moves, and each dancer steps in the red and blue footprints. Right now we’re dancing around the topic of moving on.

Ooops! I’ve stumbled. We’re not moving on from each other, just “moving on.”

She steps in, raises my arm, “I think you’re not looking for work out of state because of me.”

“Well…” I spin, “I am looking out of state, I’m just cherry picking my locations.” I move in, wrap my arm around her waist, and look into her eyes. “I’m looking at locations where we’d both be willing to move.”

The Queen dips backwards. I hold her. She bounces back up.

1,2,3…

“Me too.”

1,2,3…

“You’re looking for work?” I try flipping her though the air. I fail.

“No, I’m waiting for you.” Her left foot clips my ear; her right one sweeps my leg. We both go down in a Twister jumble of flesh. As we pull apart our dance reshapes into team Cobra Queen vs. Miyagi-Do Robby-san.

I’m craning with all my might. “What do you mean?”

She steps and thrusts, “I’m hoping you’ll find a job. If it’s here, I’ll find something I like better. If it’s somewhere else, I’ll follow.”

I counter with a block. “Uh…” Not as effective as it looks. I scramble backwards; my Queen moves for real.

So am I. “Well, if you’re looking,” I hop, and kick, “You know I’ll follow you where ever you go. I don’t need to stay here.” My crane isn’t what it used to be.

“That’s what I mean.” She bobs; I slice air. “I think we’re both dancing around, and nobody’s doing anything that they want. What do you want to do?”

Johnny, sweep the leg…

So there I am, lying on my ass, eyes wide, staring at my aggressor, without a leg to stand on. “Uhm…” It’s still an ineffective defense.

I know what I want, but everything I want has me dancing in circles. I want my house. I want a job. I want my book to sell. I want my queen.

That’s not true—not completely.

“I want you.” That part is true.

She reaches down and takes my hand, pulling me up, and into her embrace. “Me too.” We sway to each other’s heartbeat. No real moves, just high school innocence, rocking and turning, holding each other close. “But you’re coming to a decision point.”

“I know. “ I stare at the future, past her ear, leaning into her shoulder, “I’m gonna lose the house. There’s no work here.”

“Do you really want the house?” her hands cling to my neck.

“Yes and no.” I’m adrift, but she holds me up. “It’s a part of my past, but I’ve got so many memories in that house. Plus, it’s an obligation. I hate to step away…”

The Pirate pulls away, wrangling my eyes with hers. “It’s OK. You can move in with me,” her legs hold steady, but her hips sway with her music, “What’s next? What about a job.”

“I don’t know. I’m having trouble looking. I’m back at school, broadening my base.” I pull her back tight. I don’t know if I can look into her eyes and say the next words. “I’ve been thinking about school.”

“Yes,” she whispers in my ear.

I lock. I can’t move. “I’m thinking of going back. For real. I’m a writer, but I’m not growing here. I want to get my MFA.” As I speak, the words gain speed. They pour out of my mouth. No time. No meter—only spilling syllables pouring into her ear like Hamlet poison. “I don’t know that I need it, but I need the community. I need to grow. I’m stagnating here. I write words, but they lack purpose. If my pen is a sword--”

She giggles. “Oh, baby. You guys and your pens and swords.”

“No!” I pull back, meeting her eyes. I’ve waltzed out here, now I need to finish the dance, no matter how it ends. “You know what I mean. I need others to hone my skill—to be a better writer. I need—“

The music has stopped, and she’s smiling, staring, knowing. Her eyes go on forever.

I look for words but can’t find any. I’m lost in her, “You know don’t you?”

She licks her lips and pulls me close. “Not unless you tell me.” She’s rocking again. And just like high school, everything is electric, but this time carries a charge. This time is not the innocent fumbling of two kids. This time is two adults learning to move on together to the same time.

I pull her hips tight against me. “I will probably have to move. All the good schools are elsewhere.”

She leans back into my shoulder, resting her head in my neck. I feel the breath of her words, “I’ll follow wherever you lead.”

We continue our dance, moving forward together.

Ten-Dollar Words to Donuts

Words. They come in handy sometimes. Other times, they dangle from mouths like powder from donuts. My relationship with words tends towards the powder side, eyes a-glaze, nose a-hairy coconut. It’s more of a preference thing really. I like donuts. I also like the unexpected.

Superfluous tautology!

See? You didn’t expect that, did you? By definition, you should have, but that’s okay. Buy me a donut. I’ll give you more. Give me coffee and the word flow, like a nose run, will never end.

I love coffee, even more than I love donuts. Still, I prefer words. I eat them a lot. Their flavor suits me.

Some words are homographs. They taste better. For instance I could say, “I’m going to leaven the conversation,” and you could reply either of the following:

“No thanks, I’m allergic to yeast.”

or

“No Rob, you’re not that funny.”

Either response is correct.

There are other words that sound the same, mean the same, and are unfortunate just by correlation. I talked to a friend the other day, and her name is the same as MyEx’s. Now in most cases, this isn’t a problem. When I’m talking to the Pirate Queen though, it does alter her follow-up question.

Watch:

“I spoke with my friend whose name sounds like MyEx.”

“Really?”

Ok, and now…

“I spoke with MyEx.”

“Real-ly?”

See? Technically a heteronym: It’s spelled the same, but it sounds different and has very different meanings.

The same thing happened when I was a kid. My grandparents had the same name as MyEx too. No, not really, but wouldn’t that have been funny….no, my dad’s parents were divorced. This created a grandparo-plethora. As a little kid I knew what that meant. It meant that Dad’s parents were “Grandma and Grandpa with the games” and “Grandma and Grandpa with the tractors.” I was partial to the games.

“We’re going to Grandma and Grandpa with the tractors.”

“Really? I feel a little sick.” (Really meaning less than enthusiastic.)

“Really?” (Really, meaning less than believing)

“Really.” (Really, meaning I’m pushing this bluff for all it’s worth)

“Really, get in the car.” (Really, meaning “Sit down and shut up or I’m gonna beat your ass.” My parents didn’t need to curse when they had words like “really” in their vocabulary. They still did; they were bilingual.)

When my sister was born, the game parents shortened their names to “Oma and Opa,” and the other grandparents lost the tractors. No really. Nobody knows what happened to them. No, Really, stop looking at me that way. Ok, fine. They’re in my garage. Don’t tell Grandma. It was part of her identity…

Really, what I need is a quick name association for my Queen that tells her which “MyEx” I spoke to.

“So I called MyEx with the tractors today.”

“Really, how’s she doing?”

See? Perfect.

Actually that’s one good thing about the Pirate Queen. She knows about MyEx with the games. She even knows we speak. She’s not confused though. She knows the meaning of the word “spoke.” It has nothing to do with rekindled fires.

MyEx and I get along, but getting along is not synonymous with “reliving the past.” The Queen knows that I’m speaking for MyEx and myself when I say the words, “That ship has sailed.” If I’m just speaking for me, I add a donut to the mix. You know, “That ship has sailed and I got the donut.” The Queen nods, and knows.

“Here, have some coffee.”

MyEx and My Queen have not met. No matter how you pronounce it, that’s an inexpressible event. That’s not to say that they wouldn’t get along—Okay, yeah, that is what I’m saying. These are two different women from two different worlds. They have unique personalities, and unique qualities. If they met without the word “Rob” in the middle of their dictionary, they might get along, but I don’t see them as friends. Their vocabularies are so dissimilar.

And still, it’s moot: the word “Rob” does smudge their dictionary between roast and robe, and no one can erase it. Rob will always mean “elephant in the room” to them, no matter how much weight I lose.

I’m not confused that they’d fight over my tusks, or hide. It defines even less than that. It means that the word “Rob” rolls off both their tongues, but one woman’s Rob is another woman’s refuse.

Rob is a Jelly Donut.

Rob is a Paczki.

Eh, either way. I’m not a Berliner and I refuse to build a wall. But, I don’t see a word that would bring them into the same room either. I’m okay with that. They both know about each other. There is not a secret lexicon with super-secret nods and handshakes. We don’t belong to that type of group. Those groups have Kool-Aid, but they never have donuts. Imagine my disssapointment.

I’m not disappointed in our group. We’re a well-balanced threesome: glazed, sugared, and nutty. You decide which is which. The important thing is that My Queen and MyEx know that the other person exists as part of my vocabulary, but that the two words will never mean the same thing.

Now let’s talk about donuts.

The Trip

I've posted this everywhere else. I'm not sure why it's not here yet. This is The Pirate Queen's move to California

Zombies Make Honey, Zombies Just Buzz Around.

Zombies.

Yup. Zombies: that’s where we coalesce. All other monster ground is fraught with clutching fingers of disparity. Luckily we have other things to talk about. In second grade, this would have been a deal breaker. We’re adults now. When it comes to zombies, the Queen and I agree that we’re more likely to confront a flash zomb-mob, than a glistening Edward Cullen.

I know, my queen is heartbroken too.

“They’re coming to get you Barbara!”

No they’re not. And if they are, we’re safe. Neither one of us is Barbara. Okay, Okay, but just because she calls me that late at night, doesn’t mean it is my real name. She calls me the gimp too, but you won’t find that on my birth certificate.

Yeah, you could have fooled Dr. Grinder too. He was my first doctor. He saw a lot of unfortunate Rob moments. Doctor Grinder didn’t believe in Zombies. What was dead was dead. What was alive, well that was made to suffer through life’s pains. Life’s pains, that’s why Dr. Grinder was there.

One sixth-grade ball-tag frenzy ended with Justin Frey slamming a chain-link gate on my head. Why did he do that? Because I was it. I’d have done it too, with his head. A sixth grade “it” might as well be a zombie. Only problem is, “it” still consists of living tissue, and no matter how thick my skull is, the outer tissue still bleeds-Especially when smashed between a swinging gate and a steel pole. The C-latch gouged the top of my skull.

Good news for Jr. gimp Rob. I got out of school. The bad news? I got to spend the afternoon with Dr. Grinder. Dr. Grinder kept a metal probe for just such emergencies, and oh, how aliens cow mutilators would drool with envy every time he whipped that bad boy out.

“AHHHHHH!” That’s me. I’m screaming to the sound of scraping bone.

“Quit your sniveling,” That’s Dr. Grinder. “It can’t hurt that bad.” His Dremel sized steel poker wrenches against my skull.

“AHHHHHH!” That’s me again. “Yes it can. They could have impaled me with a fence post and it wouldn’t hurt this b--OWW!” In sixth grade, I’m not only failing biology; I’m failing Dr. diplomacy too. Like my horror movie mad scientists, Dr. Grinder is immune to reason.

Dr. Grinder has a point to prove, and that point’s digging deeper in my head. I cave before my cranium does. “OWWW! You’re right! You’re right! It doesn’t hurt. I’m a big baby! Now stop! Please! Stop!”

“That’s better. You’ll be fine” He slaps my back. “We should do a quick check-up while you’re here.” Snap! On goes the rubber glove. “Do you know my daughter, she goes to your school?”

“Nope! Never seen her!” I sprint from the office, before my mom could grab the consolation lollypop. Unlike gored zombie-bait, I’m all better.

Of course I knew the good doctor’s daughter. She dated a young Mr. Torres who was in my PE class. He scared me because his first name was printed on his T-shirt. That was before I learned there were no such thing as monsters, before I learned that Spanish pronunciations are different than English pronunciations, and before I learned that Hispanic families have different sets of traditional names than Anglo families.

“Mom, Jesus is in my PE class.”
“That’s nice dear. Tell him we’re sorry we missed him at church Sunday.”

“My parents say they’re sorry.”
“Why?”
“They missed you in church.”

Yes, that was the first time Jesus kicked my ass, sending me back to Dr. Grinder, but it wouldn’t be the last. At least Jesus didn’t eat brains. In church, we do that to him instead. Have you ever soaked your wafer in the wine? Try it next communion: looks like brains.

And that’s why the queen and I fear zombies: Symbolism. The early zombie movies were a metaphor for groupthink: angry mobs consuming life without restraint. Zombies are quite real in our nation, and it doesn’t matter which side of the red-blue line they devour you on.

They’re more than political. They’re all consuming on so many levels. What’s the worst part about zombies? We all can become one. For me that’s tough. I’m a stoic kind of gimp. I see the life’s tides change, and I remain still, my feet buried in the mud.

“Neither a chaser or a runner be…”

For the last year, I’ve isolated myself from most of the outside world. It’s not zombaphobia, although that would be reasonable. If I want to survive the great culling, isolation is a valid method. No, this just happened. Like the man in the time machine, the world passed, and I stayed still.

On the other hand, isolation is one way the monsters get you: they get you alone, away from assistance. The queen is here to protect me, but she can only do so much. She’s still flagging down svelte vampires. She doesn’t have time to babysit me.

So how do I protect myself from life’s zombies? What makes me different? Yeah, I can think, but if you stick a Rob in a box, and close it, that makes him both alive and dead: UNDEAD!

AHHHHH!

That’s right, you can thank the mad Dr. Schrödinger for zombie cats.

The only way to work through this is to act outside Rob’s box. How does a growing Rob thrive? Even jobless, I shouldn’t stop reaching out, interacting with my world. This week I signed up as a Red Cross volunteer. I also enrolled in school. I’m doing both part time, and both are efforts in zombie resistance.

See, the school is a way to re-acculturate Rob. I immerse him in a new people pool in hopes he’ll mingle pee with others. I’m taking classes that enhance my writing: Intro to Marketing, Web development, Yellow Journalism. It’s the Jason Voorhees trident of death.

Poseidon? No, that’s a boat, not a monster. You really need to read more. They did flip that ship for money in three different movies, though—scary stuff.

Scary stuff is also joining the Red Cross. I’ve always stood on the funding side of volunteerism. I threw money at problems until the green bills corked their cries for help. Now that I don’t have money to, I need to find other ways of returning the favor, other ways of being useful to my community.

I’m not used to that. It creeps me out a bit. Monday, I went down and talked to Jemmi, my local RC trainer. Jemmi’s a warm woman with a beaming smile, and an office cacophony of chirps and beeps from multitudes of social media devices. If you mixed your favorite HS counselor with Doc, from Back to the Future, you would have Jemmi.

“What do you want to do?” She asked, leaning over her desk, hands clasped, inhaling deeply.

“Well, I don’t know,” I leaned back, fingers clutching my chair between my legs, rocking back and forth. “I’m a writer, but I’m out of wor—“

“Well the Red Cross has four arms.” She holds up two of hers with two fingers extended on each. “First aid,” one finger down, “fundraising,” two down, both arms still up. “Disaster relief,” next down, “and” she says some speedy words here, but they flew out so fast that I didn’t catch them. Both her arms went down, and folded on her desk. Her fingers poised in church and steeple formation. “We really only recruit disaster relief in this office.”

“OK.” What else do I say? If I’m here to serve, then shouldn’t I serve where there’s a need, rather than creating a crisis to rally around first? That’s how the baby boomer brought us here to begin with.

“You don’t have a zombie resistance league?”

Jemmi explains the fundamentals of disaster relief and invites me to join once again. I wonder for a second, isn’t that a vampire thing? They invite you three times…or is that an occult thing? Crap! Mom was right! I never paid enough attention in class…

“OK.”
“First we need a quart of your blood.”
“What?” I bounce back.
“It’s a joke, Robert. “ Great. Jemmi is a comedienne too. “I need you to go fill out this paperwork.”
“What is it?”
“It’s legal stuff. Background, emergency contacts, stuff like that.” She’s extending a clipboard of paper with a pen.

Emergency contact? Why do they need that? It’s then that I realize what I’m signing up for. I’m not static standing stoic. I’m rushing forward to greet the horde. I’ve seen the zombie movies. Who are the first to get killed? The police, the fire department, and any other well-meaning ne’er-make-the-credits rushing towards the disaster to help.

Woosh!

Jemmi didn’t even see my shadow rushing away from that duty. I got a little freaked out. Like when Dr. Grinder snaps his glove.

It takes a special person to know that there’s danger and accept the risk for the sake of others. It doesn’t matter if it’s fire, flood, or decaying zombies. To live means to accept risks, to live in service of others means to accept their risks as well no matter how unfortunate, and sometimes stupid they are. This is the first time I’ve come face to face with that.

Still, I know who I am, and I know what I have to do: tomorrow I’ll call Jemmi back. I need to learn some things if I’m going to rush towards the zombies.